Relevant Wizardry
by Caustic Paladin
Summary: Reese and Finch's latest number is an odd one. Visiting New York from Chicago, PI Harry Dresden has almost NO digital footprint. No cell phone, no internet presence, not even a power bill. Worse... he advertises in the Yellow Pages under "Wizards." Takes place between "Turn Coat" and "Changes" for Dresden, after "Bury the Lede" for Reese and Finch. BOOK DRESDEN, NOT TV!


Relevant Wizardry: Chapter 1

John Reese straightened from tying the idiot gang banger to a light pole with a plastic tie, looked at the middle-aged woman who stood watching with a mixture of approval and humor, and said, "Well, Mrs. Glaser, I think you'll be safe now. This one—" He nodded at the gang tough he'd stopped from shooting the lady in reprisal for her testimony against the leader of the Brooklyn Kings, a local street gang. "—was the last member of the gang. The others are all in jail, and the police will be along shortly to take this one away."

"All of them? All seven of them?" Anne Glaser said, sounding surprised, but pleased.

"Yes, ma'am," Reese said, smiling just a little. "It seems that they were found in possession of an awful lot of cocaine last night. Given that you reported their leader for selling the stuff at the school where you teach, their protests that they had no idea where it came from fell on deaf ears."

Mrs. Glaser laughed aloud for a moment, then said, "Thank you… what should I call you? I'm pretty sure 'Coach Hershey' isn't who you really are."

"Probably best if you keep thinking of me that way," Reese said, nodding. "Though I have to admit… I'm not going to miss the 'coach' part."

"Well then, Mr. Hershey, thank you," Anne Glaser said. She heard sirens and glanced to the east. "I hear sirens. If you're going to pull a Lone Ranger, you'd probably—"

She looked back to where John Hershey, substitute gym teacher, had been standing, but he wasn't there. In fact, he wasn't anywhere on the street, despite there really being nowhere for him to have gone.

"Well," Anne said to the air, "at least I won't have to listen to kids complaining about him acting like a drill sergeant any more."

On the other side of the block— reached by ducking through the empty row house two doors down from Anne Glaser, and the one on the other side of the alley an another house down— John Reese pressed the earbud he wore in his right ear. "It's done, Harold. Anne Glaser is safe."

"Very good timing, Mr. Reese," said the voice of Harold Finch in his ear. "The machine just gave me another number, but it's… presenting me with some unusual problems. Why don't you come to the library, perhaps I'll have some information by the time you arrive… I hope."

"All right, Harold," Reese said, sliding into the rather shoddy-looking car that Finch had supplied him with for this job— a substitute gym teacher wasn't likely to drive a Mercedes, after all— and starting it. It didn't look like much, but it ran like a top. "I'll be there in an hour or a bit more— I'm going to grab a shower and get out of these clothes, first."

"Understood, I'll see you shortly."

Reese drove home, showered, dressed in his accustomed unadorned suit, and went to the abandoned library that Finch used as a headquarters, and, at least part of the time, a home. As soon as he got out on the second floor, where Harold kept all of his computer and communications equipment, Bear, the Belgian Malinois that he'd rescued from a bunch of Aryan Brotherhood members, came trotting over, tail wagging. Reese bent and scratched the dogs ears, thumped his sides, and gave the dog a piece of beef jerky he'd brought along as a treat.

"Hello, Finch," Reese said, stepping over to the board where the smaller man posted information about their current number. There was a surprisingly small amount there— in fact, the entirety of the information that Finch had found was an Illinois driver's license. "That's… all you have?"

"That, and that our number is a licensed private investigator in the state of Illinois," Harold Finch replied, turning in his chair to look at Reese. "I've found that he's on his way to New York via Amtrak, and will arrive at Penn Station tomorrow at six-thirty-five PM. He has no cell phone, unless it's a burner model, and he's barely in the system at all. I can't even find a power bill in his name. I've accessed his bank records, and he pays for an office in Chicago, pays a phone bill, rent at a Chicago boarding house, and that… seems to be the entirety of his involvement with modern society. Not even a power bill, as I said, despite the fact that other renters in the boarding house where he lives pay their own power, and there is a meter associated with his address. The power company checks it regularly, thinking that the resident might have gimmicked it so that he could steal power, but it's never been tampered with."

"Where's his money come from?" Reese asked. "Is his private eye business doing enough to keep him afloat?"

"Marginally, perhaps," Finch said. "He does, however, receive a rather substantial monthly check— an actual, physical check, mind you, not a funds transfer— from something called 'the Edinburgh Society for the Preservation of Druidic History,' which, so far as I can tell, has an office and bank account in Edinburgh, Scotland— and otherwise does not exist. Not even a website for the organization is to be found."

"Is he… some kind of anti-technology fanatic?" Reese asked.

"Not that I can tell," Finch said. "He does own a car— an antique Beetle, though he doesn't get antique plates for it, and if his bank account is any indication, it spends a great deal of time in the shop."

"Any clue why he's coming to the city?" Reese asked.

"None, I'm afraid." Finch frowned at his computer screen. "This one may be a bit more of a challenge than most numbers are, Mr. Reese, given the dearth of information we're having to deal with."

Reese leaned closer to the picture of the subject's driver's license, and said, "Well, at least this Harry Dresden won't be hard to spot. His driver's license says he's six-foot-nine, so he'll stand out in a crowd."

"Yes, that will certainly… oh. Oh, my. That's… most unusual."

Reese turned around to find Harold staring at the screen of his computer. He stepped closer, saw the "Yellow Pages— Chicago" heading on the webpage, but couldn't see more due to the angle, and he didn't want to bend over and invade Harold's personal space too much— that made the smaller man uncomfortable. "What is it, Finch?"

Finch sat back slowly, then said, "Harry Dresden pays for a Yellow Pages ad each year, so I went to see if any further information could be gleaned from the ad— stranger things have happened. When I didn't him listed under private investigators, I searched for his name… and I found his ad. Under 'wizards,' Mr. Reese."

"Wizards?" Reese said, confused. "Finch, are you serious?"

"Very serious," the little man said, and he moved away so that Reese could bend over and see for himself.

Reese looked at the screen and read, under the standard Yellow Pages font header "Wizards," _Harry Dresden— Wizard. Lost items found. Paranormal investigations. Consulting. Advice. Reasonable rates. No love potions, endless purses, or other entertainment,_ and a phone number.

Reese stood up, shook his head a little, and said, "This guy's nuts."

"Very possibly, yes," Finch said, moving back to the computer. "I wasn't able to find anything indicating a threat to him, but that's not a surprise, given the lack of available information. Given his private investigator's license, I suspected a probable involvement of a former client, or former client's spouse, in whatever brought him to the attention of the Machine. Now, though… I wonder if his belief in magic, that he can do magic, might be a factor— if it might make him a danger to someone else."

Reese sighed and shook his head. "I don't know, Finch, but I suppose it's possible. Either way, I'll be at Penn station when he arrives tomorrow, see what I can learn about him."

"That seems to be our only option, at the moment," Finch agreed. "That gives you the evening off, and most of tomorrow, Mr. Reese. I suggest you take the time to relax… it isn't like we get a lot of time off."

"A very good point, Harold," Reese said. "Care to join me for dinner? You should get out more yourself."

"Actually, Mr. Reese," Finch said, standing, "that sounds like an excellent idea. I believe that I could eat a steak. There's a very good place a few blocks away— good food, and not likely to be crowded on a Tuesday."

Reese smiled a little and said, "The day I don't want a steak, you should probably get me to a doctor, Finch."

"I'll try to remember that," Finch said with a small chuckle.

**88888888888888888888888888888888888888888888**

To John Reese's complete lack of surprise, Amtrak's Lake Shore Limited out of Chicago was running late by fifteen minutes or so. He looked around, saw no one holding a sign with the name Harry Dresden on it, but that wasn't surprising. How many six-foot-nine Caucasian males were likely to be on any one train, after all? If someone was meeting Dresden, the odds were good that they wouldn't need a sign, just a basic description.

Finch hadn't managed to find out anything else substantial about the man, save that he had been detained a time or two by the Chicago PD, but never actually charged with anything, and that a Chicago-local talk show host was attempting (for the seventh time) to sue the man for damages to the set of his show, as well as to the host's personal car. Apparently, during the course of Dresden's second appearance on the show, several cameras had caught fire, lights had blown up, and somehow, Fowler's car had been destroyed. He'd tried to sue several times, and each had been thrown out of court, but the man just got a new lawyer and tried again.

The train pulled in, finally, and Reese shifted position a little, watched the crowd of waiting people for anyone who looked like they might be intending to harm someone getting off the train. They still didn't know if Harry Dresden was a victim or perpetrator, so the crowded train station rated extra attention— it would be an excellent place to kill someone and get away in the crowds.

Reese spotted Harry Dresden as the man ducked his way off the train. Six-nine, a head full of thick, somewhat long and unruly brown hair, on the handsome side of average-looking (despite a couple of facial scars), wearing a black leather duster over a T-shirt that had something printed on it and a pair of blue jeans. He carried a six-foot long staff in one hand, an overnight bag in the other. The staff had symbols carved into it, and it took a major effort of will for Reese not to shake his head or roll his eyes at the sight.

As Dresden stepped off of the train and started towards the baggage claim area, a pretty, Asian girl or young woman of eighteen or so stepped out of the crowd and started toward him. She wore a full-length coat, with two buttons in the middle fastened, and moved… carefully. Reese suspected that she might have some weapon under the coat, and he started after her as she started for Dresden. He was close enough to hear her call, "Warden Dresden," as she got close— and to see Dresden wince as he stopped, but compose himself before he turned to face her.

"Alyssa," Dresden said, as the girl got closer. "Just Harry, remember? We're trying not to attract a lot of attention." With that the tall man looked around, and Reese barely averted his gaze, looked out over the crowd as though searching for someone, in time to avoid detection.

"Sorry, s— Harry." The girl sighed and pushed her hair out of her face. "I'm… nervous. I have no idea how to handle something like this, and with Warden Felder out of town…."

"You did the right thing by calling for help," Dresden said as he and the girl started for the baggage car. "That's what the Paranet is for, after all. And I brought help of my own, though we'll have to go pick him up at the airport."

The two went out of hearing for a moment, and Reese muttered a curse. His phone was acting up, giving him short blasts of static in his earbud, which made it even harder to eavesdrop.

Dresden claimed a big suitcase, and he and the young woman started for the exits to the parking garages, not talking much, and none that Reese could hear. He followed them as discreetly as possible, saw them get into a beautifully kept old Dodge Dart, the girl driving. Before getting in the car, she took a straight walking stick, also rune-carved, out from under her coat— it was almost certainly why she'd been carrying herself stiffly. Fortunately for Dresden, the car seemed to have bucket seats, or he have been chewing on his own kneecaps; the woman Alyssa was only two or three inches over five feet tall.

Reese got to his own car in time to go after them, and as he left the parking garage, he called Finch.

"Harold, I managed to get a line on Dresden," Reese said, "but I couldn't get close enough to determine if he has a cell phone. However, I have a license plate number for you. May belong to the young lady who met him." Reese rattled off the plate number that he'd memorized before the car pulled out and added, "It's a bright red Dodge Dart, a sixty-two, I think."

"All right, just a moment," Finch said. He then added, "I wasn't aware you were an old car aficionado, Mr. Reese."

"When I was a teenager, I got the bug, and I preferred old cars to new ones," Reese said. "The woman Dresden is with may also be… convinced she's got some magical abilities, Finch. Dresden had a heavily carved staff, and she carried a smaller walking stick carved in a similar fashion. Also, she called him 'Warden' Dresden, and it sounds like she called him for help of some sort via something called the Paranet."

"I'll see if I can find anything that relates to any of that after… ah, here it is," Finch said. "The car is registered to one Alyssa Delacroix… she's twenty-five, employed as a… oh, dear. She owns a small tattoo parlor… where she also reads tarot for people. There is a website for her shop, but it seems to be professionally designed and maintained. The shop doesn't even take credit or debit cards. She has no internet connection, no cell phone… owns a house in Queens, a nice neighborhood in Astoria. She, at least, has electricity, though… that's odd. According to her bank account, Alyssa Delacroix has called electricians and general handymen for repairs to various electrically powered devices fifteen times in the last twelve months. She has had her car in for electrical work three times in the last year, as well… and she lives six blocks from her business, probably only drives when the weather is foul."

"Sounds like she has a lot in common with Dresden," Reese said, following the old car out towards JFK airport. "They didn't seem to know each other when they met, though, so I doubt that there's anything romantic there."

"I doubt it, too, Mr. Reese," Finch said. "Alyssa Delacroix is married, her wife owns a small bookshop, also in Queens, which, according to the ad in the Yellow Pages, specializes in occult books and supplies."

"Okay, this is starting to sound like they're all part of some… subculture, Finch." Reese sighed. "Not one I'm comfortable with. People who believe in magic are… well, they're not people I can relate to."

"I sympathize, Mr. Reese, believe me," Finch said. "I'm a scientist. I believe what can be proven scientifically, and nothing else." Reese heard a keyboard clicking for a moment, then heard Finch sigh. "I'm afraid there is a magical subculture involved here, Mr. Reese. Alyssa Delacroix's wife, Celeste, also has a minimal digital footprint— no internet or cell phone, actually keeps her accounts by hand, according to the IRS file on her, and also accepts no credit or debit cards. In fact… a note from the IRS agent who audited her store in 2010 says she uses an antique, 1950s-era cash register."

"These people are practically Luddites," Reese said. "And here's another puzzle for you, Finch; Dresden came in on Amtrak, but he has some help coming into the airport. Why didn't they travel together?"

"I have no idea, Mr. Reese." Finch made a noise of annoyance or confusion, more likely both. "Very little about this experience is making any sense at all."

Reese followed Dresden and Delacroix as discreetly as possible, using all the tricks he'd learned in his CIA days, and just as it became plain that they were not going to JFK's passenger terminals, Finch called back.

"I've found some further… odd information, Mr. Reese," Finch said. "It seems that Alyssa and Celeste Delacroix— the last name is Alyssa's by birth— live with one Locke Delacroix, an author of fantasy novels who has been quite successful over the last seven years."

"Is he Alyssa's brother, then?" Reese asked as he went past the parking area that Alyssa had pulled her car into, and down to the next one.

"No, Mr. Reese," Finch said. "He legally changed his last name to Delacroix three years ago— when he moved in with Alyssa and Celeste after they were married. His birth name was Locke Fulton, which he still writes under. He has a cell phone, and a website that he seems to participate in, where he blogs about writing— and about LGBT rights and alternative lifestyles. According to the 'about me' section of the site, he feels strongly about these subjects because he considers himself married to a pair of bisexual women."

"This is getting more and more off the wall," Reese said with a sigh. He was looking through binoculars as Dresden and Delacroix got out of her car and approached Greystoke Animal Transportation Services. "This backup that Dresden wanted to pick up at an airport is apparently an animal." He told Finch the name of the place while watching as a couple of men from the transport company wheel out a pallet jack with a big cage on it. The thing was aluminum with narrow slits in it, not bars, more than six feet long, a bit more than four feet tall, and three and a half feet wide. Reese had seen such before— they were used to transport jungle cats a lot of the time. "Harold, does Dresden have a license to collect big cats or— oh. Never mind, it's a dog. At least… I _think_ that's a dog."

Dresden had opened the cage… and out came a four-foot-tall-at-the-shoulder mass of mostly-gray fur that was wagging its tail almost frantically, and nearly tackled Dresden in apparent delight at seeing him. The huge dog's puppyish excitement set both of the employees present to laughing, and Alyssa Delacroix as well. When the dog had calmed down a bit, he walked over to the woman, sat, and offered her a paw.

"Oh, my." Finch sounded impressed. "A search of pet licenses issued to Harry Dresden shows that he has a Tibetan-Mastiff-and-unknown-breed cross named 'Mouse.' Tibetan Mastiffs are very, very large as a rule, with some specimens going over two hundred pounds."

"In this case," Reese said, smiling a little almost against his will as Dresden's dog made friends with Alyssa Delacroix, "I think the cross might have produced an unusually large member of the canine family. They shipped him in a cage made for big cats, Harold, and it didn't seem to have a lot of room to spare. But I wonder why he didn't ship him on the train?"

"Amtrak does not, at this time, allow animals of any sort other than service dogs aboard their trains, not even in the baggage cars," Finch said. "It's one of the things that makes them… unpopular in certain circles."

"So Dresden sends his dog air-freight, which can't be cheap, but comes on Amtrak himself? I'm confused." Reese watched as the dog climbed easily into the back seat of the car, despite it being a two-door model, and the two humans followed. He held back until the car was almost out of sight, then started after them, heading towards Queens when he lost sight of them.

It didn't take long before he caught up to them again, and, when they got off at the appropriate exit to go towards the address that Finch gave him for Alyssa's home, he managed to hold back until they'd gotten off the off-ramp before getting on it himself.

"Mister Reese, a bit more digging indicates that Harry Dresden may be afraid of flying," Finch said. "He has flown a few times, and… nearly every time, the plane has suffered some sort of electrical malfunction. The last time he flew was from Chicago to Portland, Oregon, and the plane… well, it lost all communications and computers. They had to land blind, deaf, and dumb. That had to be nerve-wracking, and it's the last time he took a plane— I'm not sure I blame him.

Reese frowned. "That might make you leery about flying, yes, but… Finch, what happens when you add his history with planes, his lack of electric power in his home, and Alyssa Delacroix's unusual number of electronics service calls? Can you check her wife's history with electricians? And maybe their husband's? You said he has a digital footprint, but there's no internet at their home… how does that work?"

For a moment, Finch said nothing. Finally, he sighed and said, "I'm glad you're used to investigative work, Mr. Reese, I'd have missed that completely. Give me a moment, here…."

While Finch did his searching, Delacroix drove on past her house, went to the building where she had set up "Alyssa's Tats and Tarot," and all three went into the building, even the dog.

"They've gone into her shop, Finch," Reese said. "I'd rather not go in myself. Anything on your end?"

"A bit of information that is… potentially disturbing, yes," Finch said over the clicking of his keyboard. "Celeste Delacroix has had electricians into her shop to repair lighting or electrical outlets nine times in the last ten months, a total of eleven times the year before.

"Locke Fulton, on the other hand, had no electrical repairs to his own vehicle or apartment in the four years he lived in the city alone, but… about three and a half years ago, when, according to his blog, he met Alyssa and Celeste, he went through three cell phones in four months, had his laptop in the shop twice in one month, and his car five times in six months, each time for a problem with the electrical system or the car's computer. He sold his car— it was a Toyota Prius— and bought an antique car, a 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air. That car has only been in the shop twice in three years, once for a new clutch, once for a radiator flushing. When he moved in with Alyssa and Celeste Delacroix, he began renting a small office on the Long Island City side of the border between it and Astoria, roughly twenty blocks from their home in Astoria. He goes there seven days a week, barring the occasional holiday, works on his current writing project, blogs, Tweets, updates his Facebook and Google Plus pages… and leaves his computer and cell phone there when he goes home each night."

For a long moment, neither man spoke. Then Reese said, "There's a pattern there, Finch. It seems that Dresden and the Delacroixs share some sort of… improbably bad luck with technology advanced enough to require electrical parts, and that it gets worse the more advanced the technology is."

"It does appear that way," Finch agreed, his voice slightly grudging. "That may have contributed to their delusion that they're capable of doing magic. Though it seems that Mr. Delacroix has suffered the same effect via contact with the ladies… Mr. Reese, to be perfectly honest, I'm really not sure what to make of all this."

"That," Reese said, "makes two of us, Harold."

Finch signed off to dig deeper into whatever he could, and Reese sat and watched. He could see that Dresden's dog had stayed in the front part of the shop, was, in fact, sitting in the big bay window at the front and watching the street. In fact, the big dog's head swiveled back and forth, as though he were looking for something in particular, or actively guarding the place.

At a little after eight at night, a deep blue 1957 Chevy Bel Air with silver-gray trim pulled up to the shop, and two people got out, a slender young woman with long brown hair, and a tall, fit man with blond hair worn long enough to put in a ponytail. She wore a wine-red skirt and a white blouse, he had on gray cargo pants and a polo shirt about the same shade as the pants, and each wore a coat over their clothes, hers a trench coat, his a bomber's jacket.

"Finch, do you have photos of Celeste and Locke Delacroix?" Reese asked after activating his earbud.

"Yes, of course— I should have sent those to you already, Mr. Reese, my apologies." Reese's phone beeped, and he checked it, confirmed that the people who had just entered the tattoo parlor were… he supposed they were Alyssa Delacroix's wife and husband, as odd as that seemed to him.

"They've just arrived at the tattoo parlor," Reese said, watching as they were met at the door by Alyssa, who kissed each of them, then introduced them to Dresden's dog.

A couple of moments later, Dresden himself stepped out with the dog on a short lead. He stopped and tied shut his duster, then took the dog for a walk around the block, apparently policing the animal. When they came back, the other three met them outside the now-closed tattoo parlor, and got into the cars they'd arrived in. They all drove off in a direction that would take them away from the Delacroixs' home, and, after making sure that he'd given them plenty of wagon room, Reese followed. He let Finch know they were moving, acknowledged that the other man was trying to track down this "Paranet" that Dresden and Alyssa Delacroix were seemingly both involved in, and stuck with his surveillance duties.

"At least the old cars make following them from a distance easy," Reese said to himself as he watched the distinct taillights of Locke Delacroix's Bel Air turn right onto 10th Street.

It wasn't long before the two cars pulled over to the curb in front of a huge, warehouse-like building that housed a marble and granite business. They were just a couple of blocks from the shores of the East River. Reese pulled off and parked before they'd finished, next to something that claimed to be both an import-export business, and a store that sold party favors and collectibles. He waited and watched, but it seemed that no one in the group down the block had spotted him. They all simply got out of the cars and walked across the street to a residence, what looked like an old and rather shabby detached townhouse, at least from this distance.

Reese grabbed his binoculars and raised them, managed to see that Dresden had just torn loose some crime scene tape that had been across the door, was now flapping in the stiff breeze off the river.

"Finch, Dresden and the others are entering a townhouse in the thirty-three hundred block of 10th street, and he's pulled loose some crime scene tape to do it," Reese said after tapping his comms device to activate it. "Think you can find out what happened there without having to bother Lionel or Detective Carter?"

"I should be able to, yes," Finch replied. For a moment, all Reese heard was the clicking of keys, the Finch said a rather alarmed, "Oh, my."

"What is it, Finch?" Reese asked when the other man didn't continue immediately. Even as he asked, he saw a large van drive by the place very slowly, and an arm point out the passenger's window at Alyssa Delacroix's car. The van went around the corner on to 33rd Road, and, by brake light activity, parked.

"Five days ago, there was a home invasion or… perhaps a spree killing, the police aren't sure, at that address. Four people were killed very… very violently, one of them a nine year old child." Finch sounded ill, but more firm when he continued, "The medical examiner's report has been actively deleted after being printed, and there's a notation that any further reports on this or similar cases are to be done on typewriters, nothing is to be put in the system.

"John, the last time I saw something like that, it was a serial killer case, and the coroner's computer was hacked by a reporter."

"See if you can find anything similar recently, Harold," Reese said, getting out of the car and starting towards the house where Dresden and the others had gone at a brisk walk. "I've got some suspicious activity outside the place, and Dresden and the Delacroixs have all gone inside. I'm going that way."

"Be careful, Mr. Reese."

"I always am." John heard a small snort from the other end of the connection, and smiled a little as he checked his SIG-Sauer P226R by feel, confirmed that it was properly seated in its shoulder holster. "All right, I usually am."

"That's at least slightly more believable, Mr. Reese," Finch said. "I've found something about this Paranet that Alyssa Delacroix used to contact Harry Dresden, but it's nothing urgent, I'll brief you on what I've found after you're sure everyone is safe."

"Understood," Reese said, and closed the comms down to avoid any distractions— six people were headed for the house where Dresden and the others had gone, and they moved like they were trying to be stealthy. Reese moved faster, but didn't run— that would only draw attention to him, and the element of surprise was much more likely to help him than getting there sooner was.

He reached a point where he could see that the six figures were gathered on the porch, and the breeze brought to him a stench of rotting flesh, and he very nearly gagged. It seemed to be coming from the people on the porch….

Then he heard a tremendously loud bark, and a woman's voice cried, "HARRY! VAMPIRES!"

"This is insane," Reese muttered— even as he broke into a run towards the house, moving in just behind the six figures that he still hadn't seen clearly, but could smell all too well.

Even as he came the front door into a small living room, maybe fifteen feet by twenty, one of the figures that had come in ahead of him staggered backwards to hit the wall next to the door— hard enough to shake the whole building and imbed the thing in the plaster-and-lath of the wall.

Things got crazier fast. Dresden, his coat flaring as he spun, turned to face the back of the house, where four figures could be seen coming out of what was probably a kitchen, moving like cops or soldiers, and one said, "What the hell is that smell?"

Alyssa Delacroix, looking scared but in control, pulled her wife and husband close to her, then raised her rune-carved walking stick and said in a clear voice, _"Hemelvuur barrière."_

Even as she spoke— Reese thought it was Dutch, the second word was "fence," he was pretty sure— the air seemed to grow heavy with static— then a field of visible electric arcs surrounded the three Delacroixs. As this weird barrier materialized, Dresden's dog, Mouse, leapt at one of the corpse-looking men and bore him to the ground, roaring and tearing at the man.

In the meantime, one of the horrible-smelling men had turned to face Reese, who found himself staring into the face of a corpse— a rotting corpse.

"Nice makeup," Reese said calmly, and shot the man in the knee.

He heard the bullet ricochet. Off of a knee. That was, by the lack of bulk in the pants leg, completely unarmored.

"It's not makeup," the thing said in a horrible, thick and glutinous voice. Then it grabbed Reese by the collar of his suit and threw him at Dresden, who was rooting in his coat pocket for something.

Then two men crashed together, and Dresden went flying at the four armed men in a hurry, Reese on top of him. As they hit the ground, one of the men thrust his gun at Reese's face, and years of training and instinct took over. He'd dropped his Sig when he slammed into Dresden, so he took the gun the was pointing at least partially at his head, slapping the barrel aside even as he punched the back of the hand that held the gun. As the Beretta forty caliber dropped neatly into his hand, Reese shot the former owner in the knee, was gratified to hear him scream.

"You got these guys?" Dresden asked as Reese came up and shoved the injured man into the other three.

"I've got them," Reese said, relieved to face something normal.

"I'll get the vampires, then," Dresden said, and pushed to his feet as Reese stepped into the kitchen— and into the middle of the three armed men in there.

A gun came up, and Reese shot the owner in the leg even as he punched him in the elbow, breaking the bone and causing him to drop the weapon even as he fell. As he turned to the next man, stepped in too close for guns to be useful and punched him in the jaw with the barrel of his borrowed gun, he heard Dresden mutter "Okay, no setting the place on fire, Harry. Control your flames."

Then Dresden said, in a clear voice, "Fuego," and light flared up behind Reese, even as something shrieked. John glanced backwards and saw one of the corpse-looking men go up in flames— and burn away to nothing so quickly that he might as well have been made of flash paper.

One of the last two men got off a wild shot, and Dresden staggered forward. Even as he turned his attention back to the fight that he'd claimed as his, John Reese saw a flattened disc of lead drop from the shoulder of Dresden's leather duster to the floor.

"This," Reese said for the second time in only a couple of minutes, "is insane."

Then he kneed the man before him in the groin and shoved him back into the man who'd shot Dresden. While they were tangled, he stepped in and, using his borrowed Beretta in a way he'd never treat his own weapon, he proceeded to club each of the men unconscious.

He turned back to the fight in the living room in time to see a third of the corpse-things go up in flames, even as Dresden's dog tore one's head completely free of its body— which caused that one to disintegrate to dust impossibly fast.

That left two of them moving, and one was closing on Dresden, the other on his dog. Dresden had a two-foot long, heavily carved stick in his right hand, his staff in his right, and the thing facing him seemed hesitant, so Reese turned to the… thing menacing the dog. Given the way that a bullet had bounced off of the first one he'd shot, and the relatively short range, he decided to do something that he'd never have done against a… normal opponent.

Reese shot the thing in the left eye. It howled in anger and pain, and it's eye burst— but, impossibly, Reese could see the flattened bullet in its eye socket.

Dresden's dog let out a roaring bark and leapt at the thing, bore it to the ground even as it stepped towards Reese. He glanced at Dresden, saw him incinerate the fifth of the things, then turn towards where his dog straddled the last one, tearing at it and snarling.

"Mouse, move!" Dresden snapped, and his dog jumped off of the corpse-thing to one side.

"Fuego!" Dresden said again— and Reese said a narrow, brilliant lance of yellow-white fire leap off of the shorter stick in his right hand, hit the creature— and it went up in a burst of flame and ash that barely even singed the carpet beneath it.

Alyssa Delacroix lowered the walking stick she'd been holding before her since the beginning of the mess, and suddenly collapsed to her knees and began taking great, gasping breaths. Even as she did that, and her spouses knelt with her making concerned noises, Dresden's dog shook himself once, looked around— and trotted over to sit in front of Reese.

Even as Dresden started that way, the dog raised his right paw and offered it to Reese. Without even thinking, he bent and shook the dog's paw, and when he let it down, started scratching the animal's ears. Then Dresden was beside the dog, offering his hand to Reese.

"Thanks," the tall man said, shaking Reese's hand easily. "You really saved our bacon there— if I'd had to deal with those guys as well as the Black Court assholes, it would've been bad.

"Hi, I'm Harry Dresden."

"John Reese," he replied automatically. He looked around the room, then back at Dresden and asked in a slow, deliberate voice, "What the hell just happened, Mr. Dresden?"

"That," Dresden replied with a sigh, "is a long story. How about we talk about it over a pizza? I'm starved, and Alyssa should eat."

"Pizza." Reese sighed. "Maybe we should look over the people who attacked you, first, see if we can figure out what's going on with them?"

"Oh, right," Dresden said, smacking his forehead with the heel of his hand. _"Then_ we can grab a pizza."

Reese stared at the man for a long moment, then, almost against his will, let out a short, but very real, laugh.


End file.
